


lapsus memoriae

by motherherbivore (Airheart)



Category: Warframe
Genre: Blood and Injury, Breeding Kink, Hive Mind, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Non-Human Genitalia, Public Sex, The Sacrifice (Quest) Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/motherherbivore
Summary: The Warframes almost remember, almost know, almost understand, almost, almost,almost.Unreachable memories drive them. The Infestation guides them. They find solace in each other, the vile, blasphemous creations that they are.





	lapsus memoriae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orethon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orethon/gifts).



> you said go wild and i took that to motherfucking heart
> 
> hope you like it! and thank you to my friends for helping me in the editing stage <3

The Warframes raged.

It was not their fault, it was the flaw in their design, an oversight of their creators. On the battlefield, they were unstoppable, but then there was nothing to stop them from biting the hand that fed them. Their anger served the Orokin well until the simulacrum was emptied, and then the Warframes would turn their hating gaze on those golden lords, the source of their suffering, the cruel creators… Too valuable to destroy, too dangerous to let loose, Ballas turned to less savory methods of controlling the Warframes. He kept them in sparse barracks deep under the palace, ugly things hidden from the Seven, guarded by Dax and mag-shields. His labs were above them, and he cycled through the frames, day in and day out, with no apparent rhyme or reason to which ones he would take at any point...

The barrack doors spiraled open, and a mobile Dax unit marched in. The Warframes drew back, wary of the magnetic shockprods that the Dax carried. They were simple in their function, but effective—every Warframe knew well the jittering shock it delivered and the hot, scrambling confusion that it left them with. Not all of them would fight through it.

“Leave these ones,” said the lead-Dax, in sharp, musical Orokin. “Get the next set.”

Six Dax came forward, two each to a Warframe limp between them. They let the frames fall in a heap on the floor—Baruuk, Nezha, Banshee. The gentlest of them, beaten and cut by Orokin blades, Banshee’s mask broken to show her Infestation-ravaged face underneath. The golden lords were ruthless in their attempts to break the warriors they’d created. Yesterday, they’d lashed Volt til his ribs showed through his ruined flesh. Ember and Chroma still had not quite recovered from the cocktail of poison that Ballas had ordered pumped through them, nearly killing them and still making no progress towards taming their rage. The torture only subdued the frames, their wounds kept them meek while they healed. It was a fragile system, and one quickly failing as the Sentients drew ever closer.

Still, Ballas persisted. The Dax took Ash next, along with Octavia and Nova, who only struggled for as long as it took the nearest Dax to shove his shockprod against her back. She staggered, and they dragged her impatiently away. As they passed through the doorway, the mag-shields flickered back into place, and the doors slid smoothly closed.

In an instant, Valkyr threw herself past Harrow, hitting the doors hard, clawing and kicking and crying, leaving gouges in the metal. The other frames let her—she did this from time to time, unable to contain herself. She would exhaust herself eventually, and the Dax would just have an easier time of taking her to the labs. Nyx gathered Mag into her arms, Excalibur turned his back on all of them, and the rest of them just watched as Valkyr raged.

Her anger, all of their anger, was well-deserved. They were the products of Orokin hubris, and nothing good had ever come of that. Lonely, lost, only scraps of the people they used to be left. They almost remembered long-ago caresses, the gentle touch of a husband's hand or the pleasurable kiss of a wife's lips. The Infestation had not robbed them completely of their old selves, but it would have been kinder if they did—the sense of almost knowing, the feeling of something lost behind a veil, infuriated the Warframes. Confused, cursed creatures, longing for a life that they couldn't remember. All they really knew was that it felt good to crush an Orokin's throat in their hands. Creator versus creation, arrogance versus hatred, the divine versus the unnatural.

But the Infestation had not taken true hold of them—it was a delicate balance between symbiosis, and complete control. It had been a point of great pride for the Orokin scientists that cultured the strain until they realized that the Warframes’ sentience meant that they were uncontrollable.  The frames did not understand all of the things they felt, but what they knew was enough. They hated the Orokin, hated the Sentients, knew that they could not be controlled. They held no respect for their creators. They feared the creeping loneliness, and they were smart enough to find comfort in one another. No one would touch an Infested metal beast, so they touched each other, seeking the solace of a feeling they almost knew. They sensed love more than they felt it—it was one of many concepts lost in the Infestation's renewal, they couldn't name the feelings they had anymore. Someday, they would learn again, guided by Void devilry… but for now, as the war waged, they could only follow their instincts, and the Helminth’s whispers.

Trinity went to the crumpled frames, pulled Banshee to her, tried to stem the bleeding under her armor. There was a gash in Baruuk’s belly, showing warped flesh and muscle, and Equinox knelt beside him, their delicate hands quickly stained dark red as they pinched the gap closed. Oberon, a rare and beautiful Feyarch variant, blessed by a kinder strain of the Helminth and draped in Orokin crystal-silk, knelt and used his skirts to wipe the blood from Nezha’s cut-up chest. The Infestation would knit the wounds in a matter of hours, perhaps a day, but still the Warframes did what they could to help each other.

Bad emotions echoed in the hive-link, from the Warframes in the barracks just as much as the Warframes trapped in the labs. The constantly shared fear, anger, despair fueled their hatred and defiance of the Orokin, and the shared burden strengthened their own bonds. Most of the frames lost their words when the Infestation took hold, but the link let them communicate still, and in a purer way than their voices could. Oberon felt stinging sadness, frustration, a strange flutter that he couldn’t quite understand. He leaned over Nezha.

He touched the little frame’s side gently with one hand, rubbing his black skin to distract from the pain in his chest and shoulders. Cuts from a crystal blade criss-crossed his chest and shoulders, shockprod burns marred his delicate forearms. He was lucky: this time the Orokin had not gutted him almost to death. Their scientists were running out of ideas, so they turned to simpler torture until inspiration struck again. Wasting their time on brutalizing the Warframes instead of working with them, studying the extraordinary things the beasts could do.

Oberon focused his energy through his spine, into his arms, out of his palms in rejuvenating ripples that washed over the Warframes nearest him. It only lasted for a few seconds, cut short by fatigue, but there was still a little effect. Banshee’s bleeding slowed, and she found the strength to grope for Trinity’s hand, to intertwine their fingers. Equinox let go of Baruuk’s torn flesh, and the wound stayed closed. They lifted him carefully into their arms and carried him to one of the rest pods. Nezha tried to push himself upright. Oberon put a hand against his back to help him, but Nezha gave up after a moment’s struggle, and lay down again. His limbs were still weak, his muscles still aching, but the worst of his bleeding had stopped. He curled onto his side, hands clamped between his thighs. Oberon looked at him for a moment, then lay down with him, covering him with crystal-silk skirts. At the doors, Valkyr’s hysteria began to subside.

Oberon went on stroking Nezha’s side, pulsing soothing energy through his palm when he found the strength. The little frame was hot to the touch, and silk was a welcome, albeit brief coolness. Then the skirts grew too warm, and Nezha flicked them off of himself and rolled onto his back, pressing against the cold marble floor.

Then Nezha grabbed Oberon’s wrist, pushing his hand down his belly, towards his groin. Startled, Oberon’s first instinct was to pull away. He sat up and moved a short distance away, wary of what havoc the Orokin might have wrought on Nezha’s mind. It would not have been the first time that they tried to take full control of a Warframe’s mind, but it would have been their first success. Oberon did not want to be caught off guard.

But Nezha only stared at him. He put his hands between his thighs again, but this time, he was touching, feeling, petting. He looked away from Oberon and towards his fingers as he stroked the soft outer folds of his slit, spreading the lips just slightly, a bright slash of blue in his black skin. Something hot fluttered in the hive-link again, and Oberon finally realized what it was—Nezha wanted pleasure to distract him, the steady pressure of another body against his to comfort him. Oberon went slowly to him again, knelt between his legs, ran a hand over his thigh. The other Warframes sat up a little straighter, interest climbing as the flutter became a surge of feeling, and Oberon’s body began to respond.

The Helminth whispered to him: bury himself in Nezha, pin the lithe flame-warrior to the floor and breed him—pleasure was secondary to the sudden, growing urge to plant something in him and see it grow into a new warrior, a new extension of the glorious Infestation. The Infestation had already chosen Nezha as an extension of its Helminth, gifting him with a sweet womb and soft, malleable body, and given Oberon the honor of breeder. (The Orokin had never predicted the adaptability of the Infestation. It was proving to be a problem for them.)

Oberon slid a finger inside of Nezha. It was warm, slick, and Oberon’s slit parted as his tendrils slipped out, excited at the opportunity to advance the Infestation. Nezha propped himself up on his elbows so he could watch eagerly as the the tendrils twined themselves into thick tentacles that extended from between Oberon’s legs, seeking the comfortable heat of a carrier’s willing body. Oberon sensed Nezha’s enthusiasm, too, and the flutter of all their consciences, encouraging him. Still, he made no other movements, except to slowly stroke his finger in and out of Nezha, and, after a few long moments, he added a second digit. Nezha’s hands roamed over Oberon’s arms, over his own chest, fingers digging into random seams they passed over as pleasure built, annoyingly slow, in his loins. He stretched one hand towards Oberon’s tendrils, let one of them wrap around his fingers and squeeze.

Oberon withdrew his hand from Nezha and held it up to the light, spreading his fingers. Strings of sweet, translucent lubricant stretched between them, then broke. Oberon looked on for a moment longer, then rubbed the lubricant over his tendrils and shifted closer to Nezha, close enough that his tendrils could touch Nezha’s slit, but only just. They brushed against the soft outer folds, caressed his groin, pressed heavily against his thigh when they couldn’t reach their goal.

Nezha raised his hips, trying to get better friction. He reached down with one hand to spread the lips of his slit again, hoping to entice Oberon with vibrant, glistening folds. He’d forgotten how to speak in the Orokin labs, when the Infestation transformed his body and covered him in gleaming sword-steel, but through the hive-link he begged for Oberon’s body flush against his, implored the great paladin to share in the pleasure and honor of creating a new strain of power within him. He knew that Oberon was only barely restraining himself from giving in to the unrelenting want of the Infestation, and that frustrated him.

There was something else, too. Something sweeter, softer, a delicate feeling in the back of Oberon’s mind. He found himself aching in the best way to touch Nezha and protect him—his gaze fell again on the Orokin-blade cuts in Nezha’s chest and shoulders, and it outraged him. It was different from the protectiveness he felt for the other Warframes. The Infestation told them all to care for each other, but as Oberon looked at Nezha, slender and beautiful beneath him, that did not feel like enough. He slowly reached out, and laid his hand along Nezha’s cheek. A moment’s stillness, then Nezha tilted his face into Oberon’s palm. Neither of them understood quite why, but it felt good, and it felt right.

Then Oberon put both hands on Nezha’s hips and pulled the slight frame against him. His tendrils wriggled deep into the silky heat of Nezha’s body, and Nezha arched like a bow, fingers scratching Oberon’s sides, digging into the seams of his armor as he tried to do something with the surge of energy and sensation that flooded his body. Conversely, Oberon bowed, pressing his head against Nezha’s. No physical sensation passed through the hive-link, but the other Warframes still shivered from the rush of passion and primal excitement.

Oberon ground his hips against Nezha, his tendrils reaching as far as they could. The soft, wet noise as they flexed and twisted inside of him pleased Oberon, and he drew back slightly before thrusting hard in again. A whine escaped Nezha’s throat. He clenched his legs against Oberon, slipping a hand between their bodies to stroke the outer folds of his slit, stretched tight around the thick tendrils inside. Oberon leaned forward again to nuzzle Nezha’s face with his own, and Nezha’s free hand came up to clutch at the back of Oberon’s neck. They kept each other close, driven by something deeper, older than the Infestation.

Slowly, gently, Oberon began a rhythm, thrusting in and pulling out, tendrils flexing and pushing against Nezha’s walls. More tendrils slid out of his slit; slender, secondary organs that poked and prodded at Nezha, gripping his thighs, grasping lightly at his fingers as he touched himself. Their ministrations were half Oberon, half Helminth exploring a new carrier’s body. It liked Nezha’s fire-hot energy, perfectly suited to nurture a growing Infestation. Inside of him, Oberon’s tendrils throbbed excitedly.

The Helminth whispered in all of their minds, but loudest of all in Oberon’s as he struggled to keep to a steady pace. Every sense was full, every nerve alive and focused on Nezha, the slick warmth of him and the tight strength in his body as he writhed against Oberon. The heat of his fire was invigorating. The Helminth urged Oberon to move faster, thrust harder, plant his seed in Nezha _now,_ and Oberon longed to do just that… but he restrained himself. Instead, he moved in ways that Nezha seemed to like, judging by the way he gripped at Oberon and whimpered in a voice that he rarely used anymore. Oberon’s tendrils found the most sensitive spots inside of Nezha and went back to them over and over, stroking and pressing against them and delighting in the involuntary ripples of muscle that it triggered. Almost more than the impulse to breed, Oberon wanted Nezha to take pleasure in it. He did not know why, but did not question it. He pressed his face to Nezha’s again and rolled his hips against him, making the little frame arch delicately again.

The Warframes were used to the flow of the hive-link, and they rarely paid close attention to it anymore—the connection could be overwhelming, multiplying a frame’s own bad feelings, feeding it with the unhappiness of its kin—but in that moment, they were all keenly interested in the ardor of Oberon and Nezha’s mating. Nidus most of all was pleased by the stream of feelings coming from the two frames. He watched them, thrilled by their union, the promise of evolution, and his excitement fed back into the hive-link, encouraging a frenetic pace of Oberon’s hips. Nezha felt it, too, and was nearly overwhelmed by it all.

Oberon reached his peak first, and hard, thrusting so sharply into Nezha that the little frame slid several inches along the marble floor. His tendrils stiffened, stretched as deeply as they could reach. Nezha’s whole body shook against Oberon, thrilled by the heat inside of him and the solid weight of his mate. He wrapped his legs around Oberon’s waist, pinning him in place, and moments later hit his own limit with a tense arch of his back. Energy and excitement spiked in both of them. Warframes that had not been watching them before, turned to look now. Oberon was trembling.

A long while passed, and neither of them moved to separate himself from the other. The air around them was hot and sweet, the Helminth’s whisper diminished to a pleased purr in the back of their minds. Nezha canted his hips upward as much as he could with Oberon still inside him, relishing the feeling of a warm, thick trickle towards the center of his belly. Satisfaction echoed through the hive-link, a little relief from despair and hatred and fear.

Separate from all the rest, independent of the Infestation, Nezha reached for Oberon’s hand and intertwined their fingers. A comforting hot energy pulsed in each of their palms, beating against each other like a heart. They almost remembered something.

Then Oberon’s tendrils slid out of Nezha, petting his groin and thighs as they retreated, leaving wet, yellow-gold tinted trails in their wake. Oberon put one arm under Nezha’s back and sat up, lifting him into his lap, tucking the delicate face against his neck and caressing ruined skin. The Helminth’s whisper had faded, the hive-link was subdued—Oberon’s tenderness was driven by a feeling he’d forgotten in the Orokin labs, his gentle touches mimicking memories he did not know he had. Nezha’s weight was a comforting pressure in his lap. He let one hand rest against Nezha’s belly, and Nezha put his own hand on top of Oberon’s. They did not know that nothing would come of their union, that the Orokin took care to destroy anything the Warframes planted. All they knew was the warmth of each other’s bodies, the comfort of a kindred presence. Memories they almost had, feelings they almost understood.

With his free hand, Oberon pressed Nezha closer to him, and they did not move from each other until the Dax came again.


End file.
